


The Underdog

by loose_canon



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Allison and Renee Run a Bar, Alternate Universe - Magic, Andreil Week 2019, Auras, Healer!Andrew, Healer!Bee, M/M, Minor Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker, Monsterslayer!Neil, Trickster!Stuart, Underground Magic Fights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-06-26 21:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loose_canon/pseuds/loose_canon
Summary: ON HIATUS - tbc eventuallyNathaniel Wesninski has been hiding almost as long as he can remember, hiding with his mother from his murderous father, and hiding his magic from anyone who might notice. When Mary dies, Nathaniel has one option left: to call on his power.Nathaniel calls, but there's no answer. The only way Nathaniel can get his magic back is to open himself completely to another. But with his father still hunting for him, that doesn't seem likely to happen any time soon.Then again, Nathaniel's used to being the underdog.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for Andreil Week 2019. I'll be posting a chapter for each day's prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter (and the rest of the fic, let's be real): Magic AU

Neil Josten stepped into the fighting ring. Metal bars slammed behind him and across the ring a beefy man bounced on the balls of his feet, shoulders confident and palms facing forward. A big man, but clearly agile. It wouldn’t be an easy fight, but Neil would deal. Neil licked his lips and steeled himself to face the full force of his opponent’s magic with only his wits and speed. The man smirked.

The crowd screamed from beyond the cage, a sea of noise enveloping Neil on every side, eager for blood and spectacle and the particular thrill that came from watching two magic-users flex their power without holding back. Spotlights drenched Neil in whiteout heat and sweat gathered in the creases of his skin. The fighter opposite Neil passed lightning between his hands in quick bursts, electricity crackling in the air. Neil moved his attention to the place behind his sternum where his power resided, both a part of Neil and a force unto itself.

"Please," he whispered.

The announcer’s voice boomed a countdown, and the crowd crescendoed.

“3!…2!…”

This definitely wasn’t what the sage had meant when she told Neil he had to open himself up. Neil scoffed. Get in line, lady. If only Neil’s mother—Nathaniel’s mother—well. If only Mary could see him now.

Ding! Neil's heart pounded in time with the thundering crowd. It was time.

* * *

Andrew Minyard stepped out of the damp night into the Red Den’s discreet side door. Immediately, a wall of sound enveloped him. Palmetto’s underground magic fight ring was packed to the gills. The matches were a thrilling if illegal pastime. But Andrew wasn’t here to enjoy himself. He was on the lookout for trouble, that and Andrew had good luck with the waiters here. He almost regretted his choice as he made his way to the Den’s VIP balcony. The first floor's throng was hell on Andrew’s magic. Andrew saw magical auras: color and power, strength and movement. His sense was so keen he could sometimes divine parentage. In crowds like these, the auras mixed in a chaotic tangle of hue and motion, rendering Andrew somewhat nauseous. Wymack would owe Andrew for volunteering for tonight's duty.

They didn’t exist, strictly speaking, the Foxes. They were a ragtag group of sharp-edged rejects that watched over and, in some ways, provided for the magical community of Palmetto and South Carolina at large. The Foxes' headquarters were in Central South Carolina, right where the sandhills met the coastal plain, but their territory backed up to the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. David Wymack led their sorry squad, a huge man with a weakness for sob stories like Andrew and his cohort. On fight nights, Wymack liked to send one or two Foxes with perceptive magic to the Red Den to keep their eyes peeled for lopsided characters, talented magic users in need of some structure, and signs of trouble. Tonight Andrew was on the lookout for news about a very particular trouble, one that had was so outlandish most magic users disregarded it as rumor, bad gossip from bored men. Andrew, on the other hand, knew bad magic when he saw it.

So Andrew endured the cloying stench of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies as the table next to his grew prematurely rowdy. A group of magic-users too young to be admitted to the ring but old enough to present passable fake IDs slammed bottles on the already sticky floor and guffawed hilariously at the shards of glass that sprayed in an imperfect circle. Andrew couldn't feel sorry for the bar staff. That’s what happened when you gave bored teenagers alcohol and when you worked at a place like the Red Den: you cleaned up other people’s shit.

A familiar aura of rich burgundy preceded the man who set down Andrew's customary whiskey.

“Roland,” Andrew greeted the bartender. Apparently, Andrew was worth Roland abandoning his post behind the counter.

Roland smiled under Andrew’s attention, a tall man, dark-haired, and boyishly handsome. “Thought you were never going to come see me again.”

Andrew looked back to the ring as the crowd’s noise escalated. The fighters would arrive any second now. “I go where Wymack tells me,” he said, then turned to the bartender. “But I might be able to make a detour tonight.”

Roland grinned. He opened his mouth as if to make another comment when the announcer blared over the speakers, then waved a "later" and left.

“And for tonight’s match, veteran Mike Hansen—” the announcer paused as the crowd lost its collective mind, “versus newcomer Neeeeeil Jostennnn!"

Hansen strutted onto the mat, fists high in the air, the grin of a hungry predator stretched wide across his face. His aura crackled a hot shade of magenta, buzzing like an electric current. The other contestant, Josten, entered from the opposite corner with an air of calm belied by furtive glances to his opponent and the room's exits.

Here we go again. Some dumbass signed up to cut his teeth and flaunt his power without thinking too hard about who he would be fighting. The announcer blared on, hyping the crowd as the countdown began. Josten rearranged himself into a posture of focus. His aura was--

Nothing and nowhere.

That couldn’t be right. Maybe Andrew had had too much to drink. He sipped from the glass of water accompanying his beverage and focused.

Ah. It was there, barely there, a dim glow that wrapped Josten's body like gauze, no thicker than a winter coat. Andrew had never seen anything like it. He couldn’t help but stand and walk to the railing for a better view.

Josten’s aura was beautiful, there was no denying it, and Andrew didn’t wish to. He knew when he saw beautiful things. But there was also something very, very wrong with it. The aura didn’t move or flow, hardly even rippled. It simply clung to Josten like a morning mist about to dissolve in the coming sunlight. Most auras were dynamic, moving with the intentions and bodies of their owners, wide as a blood circle. Andrew reassessed Josten. Under scrutiny, there were signs of fatigue, maybe even illness. Andrew could read sickness in auras, and it wasn't much of a step to match up the physical signs with the magical ones. Andrew returned to his seat. This didn’t bode well for anyone, Josten or the eager crowd. He nursed his whiskey once more and considered how he might redeem his efforts with one willing waiter.

The bell clanged and the fight began. Hansen threw himself forward, anxious to dispatch his opponent. Josten dodged the first blow and then the second. Hansen tossed electric sparks between his palms then shot them forward in a deadly arc. But Josten either had some sort of premonitory magic or was good at reading people because he zipped to the side and ran circles around Hansen, darting in and out to punch the man square in the face. Andrew snorted. The matches here weren’t known for their fairness. Most anything went until someone’s life was seriously in danger, and even then, most of the referees waited for the hurt fighter to excuse themselves.

Hansen lumbered around the ring, and the crowd grew impatient. Hansen couldn’t make contact, and though Josten was getting a few hits in as he played keep-away, he wasn't showing off any magic. The fights were first and foremost a spectacle. A few thoroughly drunk attendees in the front row started to boo and slosh their drinks around. Ripples of chaos went out around them, and the crowd noise turned threatening. The announcer valiantly attempted to up the drama of the match by narrating Josten’s moves as “lightning-quick” and “superbly deft,” but the crowd had had enough. Hansen grew visibly embarrassed and lost some of the precision that gave him an edge over other big fighters. He sprayed currents of blue electricity that burned to white from his palms and slashed the torrents through the air like knives.

Josten retained his speed, but seemed to be losing confidence. In a poorly timed twist, he brought his shoulder into the path of Hansen’s current. He cried out as the sparks singed through the fabric of his shirt. Andrew was too far to evaluate the damage, but from the noise the man made, he had been burned good. Josten gritted his teeth and threaded around Hansen, adopting a style that focused purely on disabling the other fighter. He targeted Hansen’s kneecaps, side, and groin. Andrew was entranced. Josten's speed was borderline supernatural, his movements graceful and deliberate like a dancer. He was playing dirty, desperate even, but Andrew couldn't help but be impressed by the gracefulness of his efficiency. Hansen slowed, the small injuries becoming unbearable as they increased. Death by a thousand cuts. Andrew thought he saw the ghost of a smile twist Josten’s face, cruel and pleased. Interesting.

Josten trapped Hansen’s arms and kneed him in the face and the groin. It was the most direct contact Josten had made all match and the crowd ate it up.

Andrew finished his whiskey, unsure. Whatever that was, it wasn't magic. Those movements weren't just practiced, they were experienced. Josten might be a threat. Part of his danger lay in the nature of what was clinging to him. Maybe Josten had some sort of sickness, or maybe he had disguised his magic. Either way, he might be connected to the bad magic the Foxes were hunting down. Josten might not be able to see his own aura, but he had to know something was wrong.

The crowd roared for another fight with Josten in the ring, but he raised his hand to leave. The crowd was a fickle thing, immediately back to chanting Hansen's name. Josten didn't seem to notice, however, simply nodding to his opponent and exiting the ring.

Andrew threw a few bills on the table and abandoned his post. The victor received their spoils at a booth downstairs. Josten had already picked up his prize and was navigating to the exit with a hood pulled over his dark hair. Andrew followed him to the door. The crowd swelled and squeezed around Andrew, but he muscled through with his shoulders. A few of the bar's patrons nodded at Andrew as he went, though he was in too much of a hurry to return them. He was on the receiving end of a few sneers as well, but that was nothing new.

Josten moved annoyingly fast, slipping through gaps like a fish until he disappeared through the exit. Andrew followed, but Josten was out of sight by the time he made it through the door. Andrew sighed and turned to go back inside, Josten and his aura be damned when something moved at the edge of Andrew’s vision, a shimmer.

Andrew caught Josten’s wrist just in time. He twisted it behind the man’s back until he cried out.

“Let go of me,” Josten spit, fury in his features.

“I don’t know,” Andrew feigned thoughtfulness, “you were the one who attacked me.”

“Because you were following me.” Josten tried to bring his other arm around to Andrew’s neck, but Andrew caught it easily and added it to his collection, pushing Josten against the wall.

“Maybe I’m a fan,” he cooed.

“Oh, sure. You seem really enthusiastic. Let. Go.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Let me go, you pint-sized asshole.”

Andrew acquiesced but swiftly replaced his grip with a knife at Josten’s stomach, the blade pressed light against the fabric of the man's shirt. “How’s this? You come down to Fox headquarters and answer a few questions for me, and then I’ll let you go, safe and sound. Might even get you an extra meal, or maybe even a new shirt. Wymack’s a sap. He likes to help people who are,” Andrew paused and gave Josten’s worn clothing and disheveled appearance a slow once-over, “down on their luck.”

“I don’t have to do anything you say, snake.” Josten made a noise as if to spit on Andrew, but Andrew clapped a hand over his mouth. He removed the knife from Josten's belly and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Sure you don’t.” Andrew cooed, “but I bet you’d like to know what’s going on with that magic of yours, wouldn’t you?”

Josten went still under him.

“Either that or you’re doing a half-ass job at hiding your power in the first place." He tutted softly. "Not very smart to be entering in magical fighting matches, Neil.”

“Fuck you!” Josten bit out and pushed Andrew off him.

Andrew stumbled back, laughing. “I thought so. Pathetic. Trust me, Josten, The Foxes are your best bet around here. Other clans don’t take too kindly to, uh, special cases. But that’s all we are! Special cases. Wymack would fall over himself to help you out, though I can't promise the other kids won't bully you on the playground.”

"What could you possibly have to offer me?" Josten was incredulous. Proud little thing.

"You heard me. I can personally take a look at that little issue of yours," Andrew gave a mock bow, "and you'll have a place to hide out for a bit while you decide the next best way to show off your stupidity."

Josten thought it over. “Fine. Where is this Wymack person?"

“Not far. I can take you," Andrew said, pleased with Josten's obvious irritation at being forced to rely on him for help.

“Sure. As long as you keep your knives to yourself.”

“Long as you don’t do anything too interesting.” Andrew spun around and headed in the direction of his car too quickly to catch the full bloom of confusion on Josten’s face. A moment later, another set of footsteps echoed his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: secrets

There was a story Nathaniel’s mother used to tell him about a woman whose mind held the knowledge of all magic users, or at least her books did. She was a great healer and a sage. All magic users knew of her, though the details of her story varied. The sage had escaped a brutal husband, a man without magic who discovered his wife’s powers and tried to kill her in a fear-fueled rage. According to some, the young woman retreated to the hills outside of town and left her husband to rage by himself, his endless anger interpreted as madness by the locals. In Mary’s version, the sage killed her husband clean and quick the moment he reached to strike her, then buried his body in a location so secret it didn’t exist. Only when he was definitively gone could she retreat to the hills and begin her accumulation of knowledge and wisdom. She was an old woman now, but no less wise or powerful. And though no one who lived in the town believed the man’s wife had secretly been a witch, rumors about her disappearance pervaded. Everyone knew those without magic loved a tall tale. They had no idea how much truth secreted away in those stories.

“When you’re ready,” Mary told a young Nathaniel, “don’t worry, mijo, you’ll know when—you’ll find her in the east by the lost colony. You’ll tell her your story, and she’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Nathaniel snorted as he remembered his mother’s promise more than a decade later. Mary had certainly been a liar—they both were; it was a necessity—but she wasn’t fanciful. Mary wielded truth like a cruel knife, even toward her own child. The story was a secret whispered from Mary to Nathaniel when they were still living with his father, before they had run away under cover of night. It was the last time he could remember feeling gentleness from her. Mary hadn’t called Nathaniel “mijo” again until she knew she was dying.

But Mary’s body had long turned cold, the blood stilled in the soft gray corridors of her brain. And Nathaniel’s magic was gone. The world had come into focus and it was an ugly, artless thing. 

In the half-tourist town of Roanoke, Virginia, Nathaniel opened a map of “Roanoke’s Sights and Sounds!” he snagged from an empty airport kiosk and scanned for bars. He punched a likely candidate’s name into the GPS of his rental and pulled out of the small airport parking lot onto the road.

Nathaniel didn’t have to poke around for long. The locals liked to talk about their resident witch, spurned and vengeful, and reportedly dangerous around the full moon, though no one could attest to seeing her. Nathaniel barely had time to pretend to sip his beer before he’d heard more than enough. The bar’s regulars gave him the dubious directions of the slightly drunk: there was a particular part of the woods with an old house no one ever came in or out of. Down the main road, cross the big river, and make two lefts—or was it three? Rumor was there was a paleolithic tree stump nearby. Nathaniel thanked them and went on his way.

The small four-door car rumbled past the city limits and Nathaniel spotted a gravel driveway with the indicative sofa-sized tree stump. Outside, humidity curled the ends of his hair. It was getting long, curling around his ears, neglected in his grief. The house was plain as day, a huge porch, regal columns rooting the building in its local history, poison ivy crawling up every surface and around corners. Nathaniel knocked once on the massive wooden door and, to his surprise, it gave beneath his fist, revealing a bright hallway painted in white. Nathaniel had been too overheated and exhausted to think until this moment, but now that it was time to meet this stranger, nerves caught his limbs and shortened his breath. He waited a moment and evened out his breathing, carefully making his face neutral.

The hall opened into a room with a high ceiling and huge windows flanked by well-lined bookshelves. The sage was there, a short, round woman, hair a bright gray, thick and twisted into one long braid down her back. She sat on a desk chair and squinted at a huge computer monitor on a built-in desk. A layer of open notebooks, pens, and pencils covered a collage of magazines and bright sticky notes. She couldn’t be any older than 65, and that was really pushing it. Nathaniel was overwhelmed by the normalcy of the place. He felt foolish for expecting some kind of a smoky den or musty scroll-filled library.

The woman turned and smiled at Nathaniel as if she’d been expecting him. “Hello, young man.” She used the desk to turn the chair around and pointed to a squashy armchair at her side. “Have a seat.”

Her eyes were entrancing, so dark they could have been black. The sage waited without comment or prompt until her visitor was ready to speak. Nathaniel struggled to stop staring and come up with something to say. All that travel time and he hadn’t thought up any kind of introduction.

Where to start? Hi, my mother died and told me to use my magic but it turns out I lost it, so I figured I’d find the crone from the stories she told me before we left my murdering father. An image of his mother’s body, flaxen and stiff on an autopsy table, surfaced in his mind. It was a mercy he hadn’t seen her in that state, though he doubted his father’s people left her like that for long. But still, it didn’t feel fair. None of this was. 

What was the point of searching for his magic, anyway? He had nowhere to go, no one to go to. He was truly and completely alone. Frustration and anger welled in his chest, pricked the back of his eyelids. Oh, what the hell.

“I don’t even know your name.” Nathaniel’s voice was a bit scratchy.

She smiled a bit. “You can call me Kai.”

“Kai,” he repeated. “I lost my magic. It won't come back to me."

Kai pulled herself toward Nathaniel's chair and held her hands above his shoulders. “May I?”

He nodded, and her hands rested on him, so light he had to double-check they were touching.

"Lost, you say?"

"In a way. I," he looked down, “haven’t used it in a while. And now I can’t use it at all, even when I want to.”

Kai only closed her eyes and didn't move, listening for his magic, Nathaniel guessed. He knew if he tried to listen he wouldn't hear jack shit. Nathaniel held still under Kai’s touch, light though it was and padded by layers of fabric. Her face was lovely and strange, gentle creases swirling over sharp features.

Looking at her, Nathaniel couldn’t help but hope, even against his better judgment, that any moment now he might feel his magic wake in his chest, that familiar presence he had denied until it had stopped altogether.

Finally, Kai leaned back, stern and serious. "Your magic is not lost.”

“What do you mean?"  _ It's not there. It doesn't answer when I call. _

“It seems to me, young man," she said, face softening a bit, "that your magic has retreated far within you, so far you cannot reach it. It happens when magic users deny their magic. The magic knows it isn’t wanted and shrinks itself down. And when it can’t shrink anymore, it lets itself fade."

“Not wanted—that’s not—” Nathaniel’s breath was unsteady. He hadn’t meant to alienate one of the most important parts of himself. He only hid it out of necessity so his father wouldn’t find him and his mother. “'Lets itself fade’…can you bring it back?" His magic was all he had left now that his mother was gone. Without his magic, he was nothing.

Kai’s face became more gentle still and Nathaniel prepared himself for bad news. “There’s a very slight chance you could bring your magic back. Very slight, but a chance all the same. You've neglected this part of yourself for so long, though, that I see only a very powerful act bringing it back to life as it was before—in full.”

Nathaniel frowned. "A powerful act?"

"In order to bring your magic back, you’ll have to do the exact opposite of what’s causing it to leave. You’ve masked yourself and your nature, silencing yourself and pushing your magic deep within—”

Neil made to interject, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“—no matter what the reason. You can’t hide anymore. An act of openness, of honoring yourself. An act of trust. Magic needs balance, but it also needs to be honored for what it is.”

Nathaniel wanted to laugh in her face. That would get him killed. Yes, he wanted his magic back. Yes, he wanted a place to belong. But he couldn’t do that as Nathaniel Wesninski. He couldn’t parade around going, “Hey guys, I’m the son of the Butcher, you know, the crime boss with blood magic.”

Nathaniel shouldn't be seeing the sage in the first place. Sure, Mary had told him not to lose his magic, but he doubted she would want him to get killed. They had spent too long hiding on the run for him to waste it in some attempt to coax his magic back.

He couldn’t deny that he wanted to feel his power pulsing through his veins again, to fill the place in his chest where it used to live. If Nathaniel even enunciated his real name, his mother would return from the other side to put Neil in the ground herself before his father could.

“I can’t,” he finally pronounced.

Kai nodded a concession as if she had heard every thought run through Nathaniel's head. She leaned in conspiratorially. "To be open, young man, is not always to fully disclose. Sometimes it is simply to exist in our own power, as we are, without puffing up or shrinking down. Very often we are most transparent not when we are giving our names, but when we are giving our hearts."

Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably. This was a mistake. Kai was clearly off her rocker. Could he just get up and leave? What was the proper etiquette with sages?

Kai shook her head. "Oh sure, sure. I'm just the lost sage! What do I know?" She laughed at some private joke. "But before you go, dear one, just remember that whatever your path, you will reach a place where you will be forced to choose. You may open yourself, or you may close yourself off completely. Both, I think, might serve as a final answer to the question you have asked today. Practice openness now and you will be ready for it when it comes. Continue to hide, and you will bury your magic so deep the embers will die out."

Nathaniel wanted to scoff, but he knew somewhere in his gut that she was right. "I can't," he whispered, "opening—doing that will be the death of me. That's the world I live in."

"No one said it was fair, my dear." Kai tucked a stray hair behind Nathaniel’s ear. "I can't take it away from you, but I can tell give you this." She closed her eyes and passed her hand over his head, mussing his hair a bit as she went. He felt a tingling in his scalp. Then Kai covered his eyes with her thumbs, a light but definite point of contact on his closed eyelids. She leaned back and surveyed him, eyes flicking to his hair, his eyes, and seemed pleased with herself about something. He blinked back involuntary tears, unsure of their origin.

"That should help. The only help that's left for me to give you is to remind you that to live denying who you are is hardly living at all." She cleared her throat and sat back. "Now be careful. Your life is precious, no matter how you choose to live it. Then come back and tell me how it went. Always adding to my knowledge, me." She grinned.

“Even if I don’t get my magic back?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t come back if I’m dead.”

“Also true. But try all the same.” Her smile was kind and for a moment Nathaniel found himself wishing he could do as she suggested.

And then Kai was motioning Nathaniel back toward the exit, claiming that she needed to rest. An attendant he hadn’t seen before entered the room with a wheelchair and helped her transfer. Nathaniel watched Kai leave then turned his back on the sage and her library.

He didn't know what he was going to do, but he did know that he needed to find somewhere to land for a while, and that even if Kai was right about living as yourself, as long as Nathan was alive, and as long as the memory of who Nathaniel was supposed to be endured, he couldn't open himself to anyone, not even to regain his magic. Nathaniel would have to be left behind.

He walked to his car in silence then took a final glance at the sage's home. The house seemed to have receded. The place where the house ended and the poison ivy began wasn't clear. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he was looking at a house.

He got the feeling that the only people who could find the house were those Kai wanted to, and that he was locked out until he had a story to tell the sage. Kai was a clever one. 

With nowhere to return, the man who used to be Nathaniel had no choice but to move on.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be shooting for a weekly posting schedule from here on out :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: I had a brainwave and went back and edited the first two chapters a bit. I just removed a few sentences, rearranged a tad, and dropped a couple hints. Other than that, not too much is different. ;) If you read them after 7/28/2019, feel free to ignore.
> 
> Prompt for this chapter: language

Andrew slid into the Maserati and Josten followed suit. If the man was surprised by the car, he didn’t say so. Andrew raced them onto the road that would take them to Fox Tower. Neil’s aura was more fascinating than ever, but Andrew kept his eyes focused forward and ignored the urge to inspect. There would be time for that soon enough.

They hadn’t been driving five minutes when Andrew’s phone vibrated in the cupholder, Wymack’s name flashing across the screen. Andrew snapped it open.

“Andrew, there’s been another attack.”

“Where?”

“The Taylors. Same signs as before.” Wymack sighed and Andrew could picture his exact expression, brow furrowed in exhaustion. “Their little girl is missing.”

There had been a spate of deaths in the area recently, and neither the authorities nor the Foxes had been able to figure out who or what the attacker was. Andrew knew from looking at the mangled bodies found in the woods what the authorities couldn’t believe: the attacker wasn’t human or animal. It was something else. A monster.

Andrew said nothing.

“I told them to expect you in an hour or two.”

“We'll be there in under an hour.”

Wymack sighed. “Jesus, Andrew. Be safe in that monstrosity of yours. Wait, 'we'?”

Andrew ignored Wymack’s poor choice of words. “I’ve got company.” In the passenger seat, Neil looked over, no longer pretending not to eavesdrop.

“What kind?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” Andrew snapped the phone closed and tossed it back into the cupholder.

Neil waited a few moments before probing, “Where are we going?”

“You heard,” Andrew said.

Neil chewed his lower lip in Andrew's periphery. Silence fell for a few minutes, but nothing gold can stay. “What’s doing the attacks?”

“Don’t know yet. Why? You got something you want to share with the class?”

“No,” Neil said, petulant.

Andrew turned the Maserati onto a gravel driveway and drove on the grass next to it, following the road to the house without risking dinging up the car. Neil snorted next to him.

Andrew parked next to an age-worn pickup and a hitchless trailer. A few bikes were scattered around the yard along with a forlorn pair of children's shoes. Andrew turned to his passenger who was reaching for the door handle.

“Listen to me, Josten.” Andrew grabbed the front of Neil’s shirt. “You are only here because I need to keep an eye on you until we get to the Tower. You have two options. Wait here or come inside. If you come inside, you will not say a word, do you understand?”

Neil latched onto Andrew’s wrist and squeezed the tender bones there. “Get your fucking hands off me, you miserable piece of shit.”

Andrew laughed and tutted. “Language, Josten.” He let go and Josten fell back. Andrew asked so little. He leveled a finger at Josten’s chest. “Let’s try this again. Do. You. Understand?”

“Fine,” the man spat. “Yes, I understand.”

“Now will you be staying or going?”

Neil looked up at Andrew from where he leaned against the window. Anger burned from under his long, dark lashes. Andrew waited. “I’ll go,” he said. “And it’s ‘Neil.’”

Andrew grunted his agreement and they moved to exit the car. Andrew opened his door and froze.

The monster had been there. He could feel it.

The traces left behind by magical beings weren't visible, but more like a footprint in the atmosphere by their power. The monster's was part unsettling strength, part the stench of rotting flesh, and part something else Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. The monster’s trace distorted the magic of the area, transforming the mingling of cool earth and the baseline presence of nearby magic users into something chasmic and simple in its terror. Andrew tingled with recognition. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

On the other side of the car, Neil stood equally still, fighting back what looked like panic.

There were also traces of the girl the monster had taken, light and vibrant like growing grass. Andrew had seen her a few times with her father, and Andrew didn’t forget a face or the feel of a person’s magic. The feeling of the monster was too strong to tell if she was dead or alive. They would have to go find her.

The Taylor house was a small one-story structure in beige stucco. The pay for the job wouldn’t be much, but pay wasn’t Wymack’s primary motivation. The old man had gone soft years ago.

Andrew swung open the screen door and pushed through, ready to get this over with.

The girl’s mother sat in an armchair, her face showing no expression. Andrew had never met the woman before, but their likeness was striking. Her aura was a muted yellow, once soft, he imagined, now paling to a sick pallor. She was flanked by two men, one Andrew recognized as the child’s father, and another in secondhand army fatigues who looked to be an uncle or older cousin. Neighbors and family gathered around them in morose knots on mismatched chairs dragged in from other rooms. They talked among themselves, resting an arm on each other, faces registering varying levels of grief and interest. The father stood and strode to meet Andrew.

“Andrew, I’m so glad you can make it. Jess Taylor.” A cobalt aura, still vibrant. Holding on for everyone around him. He wore a faded Pepsi t-shirt, rough blue jeans, and a belt with a prominent buckle. His face was light brown and tired, his smiled pinched in worry.

Andrew nodded a greeting. He didn’t need Wymack lecturing him for his rough manners again.

The Taylors descended from generations of magic folk, and were no doubt versed in stories of monsters they learned as children. If they called the Foxes, that meant they had accepted that their daughter was not taken by any ordinary kidnapper. They could read the signs. It was wiser this way, not to involve the authorities. And now they were looking to Andrew for a miracle.

But that wasn’t Andrew’s specialty. Andrew could fight, yes, but that wasn’t why Wymack had sent him out. Andrew was the person Wymack sent when the ugly end had already begun. A miracle was no longer on the table.

Andrew's combat boots scuffed the tile as he walked further in. Whispered conversations ended as Andrew passed by, and the neighbors and family members took to open staring. Most were curious, though a few of the looks were decidedly unfriendly. Andrew’s reputation had preceded him, but he couldn’t give a shit. He was here on Wymack’s orders. He’d do what they asked, and then he would be gone.

Even though Neil lacked a magic aura, Andrew was hyper-aware of the other man. He sensed but didn’t see Neil halt in the shadows behind him. He doubted the gathered crowd would leave the stranger out of it.

The mother finally spoke, only one question for Andrew. “Will you save her?” Her voice was dry and cracked.

Would he? Andrew didn’t lie.

“I will find her.”

The mother’s face passed back into stone. She sensed the honesty in Andrew’s answer.

As did the father. “Bring her back,” his voice almost wavered, “however you can.”

“You have my word,” Andrew replied. Neil was a statue behind him.

The man in fatigues stood slowly, a button-up Andrew assumed was an attempt at formality stretched over his aging figure. He introduced himself as Billy and thanked Andrew for being there. His expression was grim but stern.

“Who is that and why is he here?” Billy’s voice wasn’t accusing, but he eyed Neil’s unfamiliar face and poorly fitting clothes with suspicion.

“He's my concern. He'll be assisting me on the hunt. Do not distract him from the work.”

Billy accepted that, though he didn’t look too happy about it. “Does he have magic? What is his power?”

Andrew looked back to Neil, who straightened and lifted his chin. Even in his scruffy state, he managed to look proud, high cheekbones pronounced in the fluorescent light. “I am of a powerful family, but I have none myself.”

Murmurs of shock and anger circled the room. Jess frowned. “Which family?” a woman called from the side.

Andrew held up his hand. “If you have a problem, take it up with Wymack. We have until the end of dawn to find your daughter before the monster disappears with her body for good.”

Something fierce bloomed in the uncle’s expression. “Hey now—”

The mother rose from the chair and stretched her arms out to silence the room. Angry tears formed in her eyes. Andrew felt a bit of respect for the woman. Maybe Neil could appreciate the emotional tableau before them. “Just go. Find her.”

Andrew turned on his heel and waved Neil after him, not bothering to address the angry comments that followed them. Outside the door, the air was cooler, if not uneasy with the presence of the monster.

The door banged shut behind Andrew, then opened again. It was Jess. Without his family watching, resignation settled into his shoulders and the outer corners of his eyes.

“Please, don’t let her suffer.”

Andrew stopped and fisted his hands. Neil nodded for them both.

Jess retreated into the house.

Andrew felt a hand on his arm and stopped moving as fear pumped through his body. Neil removed it and stepped in front of Andrew, expression uncertain. Up close, Andrew could smell the man’s sweat, not unpleasant and unmistakably human. It mixed with pine and something warm. Less than a foot away, Neil’s aura was nearly translucent and shimmered in the moonlight like the surface of a pearl. Beyond the shimmering, it hardly moved. If Andrew concentrated, he could sense a trace of magic so faint it barely registered it even on his unparalleled perception.

Now was not the time. “What, Neil? We’re losing the night.”

Neil worried his bottom lip then spoke in an urgent whisper. “She’s severely injured, but she’s alive.”

Andrew searched Neil’s eyes for a lie and found nothing.

“Motherfucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early! Woo!
> 
> The violence in this chapter is on par with canon violence, but if you'd like to skip it, stop at "Neil looked past him" and start again at "I'm going to take".
> 
> Prompt for this chapter: concert (it's a real loose interpretation lmao)

Neil and Andrew followed the obvious tracks, slicked grass and snapped branches, up the mountain for an hour but saw nothing. Neil walked behind Andrew, who despite his height and unhurried attitude, made good time with his sure strides. For a moment, Neil could forget what Andrew was leading him to. He lost himself in the beauty of the early gray-blue light and the rhythm of his breathing. He could forget about the monster and his own predicament entirely.

The forest hemmed them in. Tall pines stretched to the murky light, an army of thin columns skirted by sprawling shrub that stretched across the feet of the Blue Ridge proper. Night animals moved in shadow, snakes and owls and mice. The smell of pine was strong, wafting up from the carpet of crushed needles under Neil’s tread. The air was thick and cool, a happy mist for busy insects. They buzzed by Neil’s ears and trailed after the two men, looking for the source of the unexpected sweetness in the air. Neil felt at home despite himself. He liked the quiet of nature, the calmness and the beauty of it. He had learned to hold onto these moments on the run, to savor them, to find balance.

The moon drifted down toward the horizon, and warmer tones crept into the light. The distant shadows sharpened into trees and cicadas reached the climax of their nightly concert. Neil’s contentment slid away with the dark. Ahead, Andrew moved forward at the same steady pace.

They kept moving until the distinct smell of rot overwhelmed Neil’s senses and disquiet sat heavy in his belly. They were almost there. Apprehension was bitter and sharp on his tongue, but Neil forced it down and continued forward. In front of him, Andrew touched the machete that hung from his waist and the armband covering his left forearm. Neil squinted and guessed he found the location of the knife Andrew pulled on him outside the Red Den. Andrew had also gathered a small leather pouch from his car before they set off. It hung across his back directly in front of Neil. Neil hoped that whatever it held could banish monsters. 

Neil instinctively ran his palm across the handgun concealed beneath his waistband. He didn’t like to carry knives, himself.

For the first time in an hour, Andrew came to a halt. He crouched down low. Neil peered around for a sign of the monster but saw nothing. 

“What is it?” he whispered in Andrew’s ear, barely discernible.

“I see their traces,” Andrew said and trailed a finger in an invisible line toward where the monster waited. 

They crept forward and a soft flicker of light blinked through the trees. At first, Neil took it for the beginning of sunrise. The sky above them transformed into silky purples and pinks. He moved forward in a crouch. A campfire shivered beyond the trees, its light washed out by approaching day but still flicking faint shadows on nearby trunks. Neil knew how to build a campfire from experience, and this one was hastily constructed, hardly more than a haphazard pile of broken twigs. 

Neil motioned Andrew to move to the west, downwind of the camp. Andrew’s expression was grim, but he complied. They moved slowly. Neil knew how to be silent. Andrew didn’t move like a hunter, but he was deft enough, quiet and methodical, careful but sure. He must have picked up this particular hobby recently. They found a spot close enough to see but well-hidden from the nearly-born sun.

Neil readied his gun and Andrew withdrew something from his pouch and held it softly in his hand. He closed his eyes and muttered something over it. Neil tried to peer into what Andrew held in his fist as they settled, but an index finger redirected Neil’s gaze to Andrew’s curiously pale face. His jaw was clenched tight, whole body tensed. 

Andrew spoke through his teeth. “Stay. Here.” Then he took a step forward.

Neil looked past him and his stomach dropped out. The monster had the shape of a human, but there was something unsettlingly wrong. It lay on its side, its hulking back to them. In the pink light of dawn, its skin was milky white and thin, almost translucent, nearly glowing. The legs were long and the arms even longer, stretching beyond human proportions. Its body blocked most of the girl from Neil’s sight, but he could hear her soft whimpers as it sliced through her shoulder with a sharp nail.

Anger rushed through Neil’s body, his head hazy and limbs tingling. Memory dragged him underwater as he remembered the sharp slice of a blade, strong fingers holding his arm like a vice as he tried to pull away, the amount of blood that could be coaxed from a body before it turned cold, the smell of rust and something deeper, unnameable. 

Neil shuddered with the power of it and the world rocked beneath him. He had escaped that particular monster. And Kai had transformed him into Neil, a man with dark hair and dark eyes, whose face and body wasn’t marred with slashes and scars. Neil needed to be present now. 

The monster was slashing at Andrew who fended him off with a machete, throwing what looked like sand at the roaring creature. Neil stepped forward and attempted to aim. The monster tripped and Neil sucked in a breath. Red covered its massive hands and dripped from its talons.

Neil fired and the bullet plunked heavily into the monster’s chest. 

“Hey! Pendejo!” Neil shouted. 

The monster stumbled toward Neil. He fired again. A thin line of blood fell from the wound, then it poured. Neil counted down from ten. In ten seconds, a human loses enough blood to fall where he stands. Neil knew this was no human, but hoped the rule would hold true anyway. 

10…9…8…

The monster towered toward Neil. It had to be at least six feet tall, huge in the shoulders, terrifying up close. Beneath the skin, the muscles worked. 

Andrew had gone to the little girl’s side and was helping her up.

“Run!” Neil yelled and fired again.

7…6…5…

The monster held its shoulder where the bullet had entered and whipped back to the fire. It retrieved an ax Neil hadn’t noticed before and swung wildly. Neil spotted a knife Andrew must have lodged in its calf as he darted to the side. 

“Andrew! The machete.”

As Andrew reached for the weapon, the monster pivoted and sped up the mountain, too fast for its size. Only magic could move something that big that fast.

“Shit!” Neil grabbed the hilt from Andrew’s outstretched hand and raced after it.

4…3…2…

If there was one thing Neil could do, it was run. He had always been fast. Fast when he dodged from his father’s men when he was a child and fast hurrying with his mother to the next hideout. Neil didn’t dare try to get a shot off, but another knife whistled by and lodged in the monster’s Achilles. It screamed, somehow both painfully high and gut-gripping low. Neil wanted to cover his ears but pushed forward. He leaped over logs, dodged trees, and avoided snarling underbrush, but the monster was gaining ground.

1…0.

The monster moved ahead in a burst of speed Neil wouldn’t believe except for seeing it with his own eyes and disappeared beyond the far trees. Neil pushed himself as fast and as hard as he could, his lungs on fire and his limbs screaming, but the monster was gone and left no obvious trail. He scoured the ground and the trees and the forest doubled in his vision.

Neil sank to the ground, breath heaving. The rush of energy left him empty, as exhausted as he had been furious. Blood covered his hands, his clothes. Neil briefly lost himself to the visions he had fought off earlier. The only sound he could hear was blood pounding in his head and his own breathing. The ghosts of scars no one could see were alive on his skin once more.

Then he took in a painful breath and stumbled back down the mountain until the fuzzy figure of Andrew kneeling over the body of the child came into view. Her back was propped against the tree, hair in tangled, blood-soaked knots. Her light brown skin tinged an unnatural grey. Neil took in her wounds, methodical gouges deep enough to reveal muscle and flashes of white bone. With his new hair and eye color, Neil looked a lot like her. He was probably around her age when he and his mother first ran from his father. 

Andrew finished assessing the girl’s wounds and looked her in the face. “The monster got you.” He brushed her hair back from her forehead and gestured to her ruined limbs. “Do you know what that means?”

She wasn’t going to make it, Neil realized. That’s why Andrew wasn’t bandaging her limbs. He looked closer and saw that her blood was turning the same rusty color as the monster’s. 

The little girl tried to speak, moving her eyes to look at the wounds on her body. She groaned.

“I’m going to take out the poison,” Andrew continued in a low, soft voice, “but it’s going to hurt. Even afterward, when it’s gone, you’re not going to feel the same again. I met your family. They seemed like good people. They’ll tell you it’s okay, try to say the right things. They’ll try to fix you. But you can’t be fixed. You will be different, and that will be how it is.” The sun had risen through the trees and Andrew’s eyes burned pure amber, his blonde hair bright. The little girl, if she lived, and Andrew seemed to think she would, would always remember him this way. “You’ll fight it all your life, but you can’t let it win. Do you understand?”

Neil watched Andrew take off his pouch and hold the strap where the girl could see it. “I’m going to put this between your teeth, okay? Bite down on it.”

He waited until she gave a feeble nod and gently placed the thin strap between her teeth. Neil couldn’t watch any longer. Andrew whispered, “This is going to hurt, but it will end.”

The sun crested the trees. Everything was orange and pink and green, and hidden birds sang all at once, but it wasn’t enough to rid the scene of its misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I love to hear back.
> 
> I'm going to try to update the next chapter a bit sooner since this one ends on a bit of a downer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: paper crane

The sun was well into the sky by the time they got back to the Taylors’ place. Andrew carried the little girl in his arms. She looked better; the color had returned to her cheeks and her wounds were already beginning to heal. Her aura was returning to a normal shade of seafoam green. For a moment, Andrew had thought he was going to lose her. When they found her, her aura had faded almost to nothing, jerking and fading eerily as she fought to hold on. But he had promised her that the pain was going to end, and he didn’t break promises. The infection was hard to contain; the bad magic had slipped into her bloodstream and begun to circulate her whole body. She would never forget this night or the agony of pulling the infected blood back from her veins. 

Her family had been ecstatic. Andrew knew they meant it, but they still eyed the gashes where the monster had sunk a claw through her flesh and asked Andrew if there would be scars. Andrew had all but snarled back that of course there would be scars, they should be happy their daughter was alive. Neil hadn’t expressed much emotion besides his little panic attack when they first spied the monster and the brief rage that sent him running after the thing, but he had eyed them with dislike when they asked the question all the same. Andrew wondered if he was hiding any scars of his own.

As they left, the girl’s mother had followed them out. She had reached for Andrew’s arm for a moment then drawn back, probably remembering his silent refusal to shake hands.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low and serious. “I owe you my daughter’s life.”

“It’s Wymack you owe, not me.”

She nodded, acknowledging the Taylors’ official agreement with the Foxes, then said, “You saved her. If there’s anything you need that I can give you, I will.”

“I need nothing,” Andrew hesitated, “but thank you.” 

The drive to Fox Tower wasn’t long. All Andrew wanted was to make his way to his room in the Tower, to rinse the blood and the putrid smell of the monster off him, and to sit on his couch with a bottle of whiskey and drink until he didn’t have to remember. But that was a futile game. Andrew remembered everything. 

Neil said little on the drive back, lost in his own thoughts.

Neil was a bundle of mysteries and now a liar to boot. Andrew didn’t much like liars. Neil claimed not to have any magic left, but he’d somehow known the girl would still be alive. And the fact that Neil’s excuse for an aura was the same color as the monster’s skin? That was absolutely dangerous. Andrew reminded himself that he had been the one to invite Neil to the Tower. Wymack would welcome another down-and-out magic user, but if Neil went rogue it would be Andrew’s mistake. It was like he had forgotten his mission the moment he saw Neil. He had itched to pick away at Neil’s puzzling little problem, healer-in-training that he was. But that was before he had seen the monster and what it did to its prey. 

Andrew whipped into Fox Tower’s parking lot. The building’s name was a bit of an exaggeration as it was only six stories tall, but it was still one of the taller buildings downtown and big enough to host most of the Foxes and serve as their center of operations. Andrew had lived there for the past five years, though he, his twin brother, and cousin had their own house just outside of town. Andrew remembered the first time he had seen the Tower. He had just found out that he even had family. His childhood was spent in the foster system, shunted from home to home, used when the hunger struck and he was convenient. Andrew had figured nothing could be worse than that, even membership in a band of rough rejects who had nothing in common but their magic, and he had settled into Fox Tower for the foreseeable future.

Fox Tower wasn’t in a particularly nice part of downtown. Yelling and thumping bass and distant sirens formed a low level of noise at all times. The cops tended to come late if they came at all, but no one called them anyway. It was better like this. The Foxes didn’t deal with the law and neither did Andrew. He’d had enough of the state in his lifetime. 

In the passenger seat, Neil stared at the building.

“Thinking about making a break for it?”

Neil snapped to attention, irritation flashing over his face for a brief moment before he unbuckled and tugged his duffel from between his feet. “I thought I was here by choice.”

“Oh, Neil. You’re only here because you’re desperate,” Andrew said and slid out of the car. He waited for Neil to struggle out and hook his duffel on his shoulder.

“Like the rest of you, right?” Neil retorted.

“Your deductive skills continue to astound.”

The familiar mixture of exhaust, greasy food, and skunk hit Andrew’s nostrils as they walked from the curb to the Tower. Neil didn’t scrunch up his nose, but his eyes darted back and forth cataloging their surroundings like a rabbit tensed for escape.

Wymack’s office was on the ground floor. Andrew felt Neil’s eyes on him as he pushed in the code to enter the building, not even bothering to shield the keypad. Andrew didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t watching Neil as they walked through the front hall. Neil’s eyes jumped around, searching for an exit. His knuckles were white on the strap of his duffel bag. He looked at Andrew for an answer, no doubt waiting for him to begin forceful questioning about Neil’s little intuition at the Taylors and everything else about him that screamed “dangerous” and “runaway.” Andrew felt his mouth curving into a half-smile. The questioning would come, but first Andrew wanted to watch Neil squirm.

Wymack’s door wasn’t locked so Andrew threw it open. This office was mostly a front, anyway. Everything Fox and magic-related was kept locked in the basement.

“Jesus, Minyard. How many times have I told you not to do that?” Wymack shook his head and stood from his desk. His aura was a deep, burnt orange, fierce and weathered like the man it surrounded. He garnered respect by default with his huge stature and earned it with his penchant for lost causes. “Let’s take this downstairs. I take it we need Betsy for this?” 

Andrew nodded affirmation. 

Wymack stepped around his desk and Andrew felt Neil go stiff beside him. 

“I’m David Wymack, but you can call me Coach. That’s what all these knuckleheads do.” Wymack extended a massive hand to Neil.

Everything about Neil screamed panic but he eventually spoke. “Neil Josten. Thank you for having me.” He shook Wymack’s hand for a moment and then took a step back.

Wymack stepped back as well and angled himself toward Andrew. “Neil, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like or leave whenever you choose. But since you saw the monster with Andrew, I’d like you to be present for the debrief.”

Neil nodded and glanced at Andrew. Andrew raised an eyebrow and watched Neil frown defensively. He was so easy to goad. Andrew held an arm out as Wymack left the room, forcing Neil to exit last with Andrew between him and Coach. The basement was well-lit and stuffed with couches pilfered from garage sales and secondhand stores. Wymack’s girlfriend Abby was responsible for the basement’s general upkeep and the snack cupboard’s generous bounty.

Wymack took an oversized armchair and rested his elbows on his knees, hands laced together in the front. He looked the same as always. Bright blue jeans and a sports polo filled out with his massive arms and shoulders. A ring of tattooed barbed wire circled each bicep. His sneakers were about ten years behind the trends but he made it work, or maybe it was the threat of force he carried in his body that brought it all together. His skin was the deep tan of the outdoor worker, and laugh lines and worry wrinkles both sprouted on his face. He blamed the Foxes for the edges of his dark, close-cropped hair going prematurely gray.

Wymack was the closest thing Andrew had to a parental figure with the major exception of Bee. He let Andrew, Aaron, and Nicky into the Foxes, and that meant something, though Wymack might be willing to give a piece of roadkill a “second chance.” 

“In here, Betsy.” 

Bee’s office was just off the basement’s main room, and she entered through the door with a smile for Andrew. Her emerald aura shimmered and swayed in its usual calming manner. Andrew nodded back. She would be proud of his work with the Taylor girl. 

Bee took a seat on the end of the couch next to Wymack’s chair. Bee was Wymack’s opposite. She was much smaller, and everything about her was soft. Her eyes were round and friendly, a rich brown that made you want to trust her. Her skin was deep brown and her thick puff of curls shining silver. Bee never lied, and Andrew owed everything he knew about healing to her. He struggled to articulate how he felt about Bee, but she knew. 

“And who is this?” Bee prompted.

“Neil, this is Betsy Dobson, therapist and healer extraordinaire,” Wymack gestured widely. “Betsy, this is Neil. Andrew picked him up in the Red Den’s fighting ring. He helped with the Taylor girl. Got a good look at that monster, if I’m not mistaken.”

Andrew sprawled on the couch next to Neil whose spine might have been replaced with a flagpole. Bee’s presence did nothing to make him relax. Issues on issues. 

“Where are you from, Neil?” Bee asked gently.

“I’m from the west coast,” Neil said.

The twang of a lie zipped through Andrew like a bad note in a favorite song. He gave Neil all his attention. (Neil was too busy sitting with the stick up his ass to notice.) Andrew saw them, the little unnatural ripples in the aura of someone who is lying. They were hard to see in Neil’s, but Andrew was familiar enough with the shape and accompanying feeling in his to recognize them.

“My mother is dead,” Neil continued, “and my father is out of the picture. I’ve been on my own for a while now.” Little lies and half-truths.

“Well you’re welcome here, no matter who you are or what your parents are up to, Neil.” Wymack clapped his hands together. “I’m sure Andrew’s told you we’re a place for magical folks to start over, and we like to keep an eye on things in South Carolina. Speaking of which, who is going to tell me about this monster?”

Andrew described their encounter in as few words as possible, though he left out the part where Neil predicted that the girl was still alive. Bee frowned as he described the monster’s nearly human proportions. She asked questions about the girl’s injuries. Were they all from the creature’s claws or were some of them bite marks? Andrew was pretty sure they were all claws and Neil nodded confirmation. She circled back to its appearance.

“Did you get a good look at its face?”

“For a bit,” Andrew said. “It’s mouth and eyes were more like slashes than actual features, like—” he tried to summon the words.

“Like a kid made it with Play-doh,” Neil said to his shoes. “And the skin was sagging, almost see-through. You could see the veins and knots of skin. It looked like pulp in orange juice.” Neil scraped his cuticles back with his thumbnail and Andrew fought the urge to smack his hand away.

“It was ugly,” Andrew summarized. 

“Did you see its teeth?” Bee said.

Neil shook his head as Andrew said, “Big motherfuckers. All flat and even.”

Bee leaned back and sighed. “I wish we had part of it to examine. Looking at a monster’s insides, its brain if it has one, can tell you a lot.” She spoke to Andrew, shifting into teacher mode.

“I tried to catch it,” Neil said, “but it was wicked fast. Faster than me even with a few bullets and a knife in it.” 

“Did it speak to you? Or to the girl?”

“Wasn’t really a good time for conversation, Bee,” Andrew said. 

“I mean, did it use words? Or communicate somehow?”

Andrew shook his head again. He saw the gears moving in Bee’s head. 

They sat in silence while she thought, Wymack included.

“Betsy?” he prompted finally.

“I think,” she shook her head, “I think we have a bad situation on our hands.”

“What kind of bad situation?” Wymack’s already looked tired.

Bee stood and gestured at the ceiling, the paper crane tattoos that flew up the inside of her right arm soaring through the air. “Why only use its claws? And why tear at her like that? If it wanted to eat, it would have killed her immediately or gone right for her organs. Why would it be so methodical?”

Neil noticed Andrew looking at his hands and shoved them under his legs. 

“I don’t know, Bets,” Wymack said.

“It doesn’t make sense. But there had to be a reason. Something it wanted.”

Andrew thought of the lines on the insides of his own forearms, of the way the little girl cried and asked him to make it stop. “Pain.”

“What was that, Andrew?”

“Pain. It wanted her to hurt.”

Betsy sat back down. “Perhaps. This monster isn’t in any of the stories I know or any of the books I own. I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to fight it.”

Wymack put a hand on her arm. “Betsy, do you think there are more out there?”

“More monsters like this one?” She shrugged her shoulders and met Andrew’s gaze. “I’m not certain about this, but I don’t think this creature was born. I think it was created. By someone powerful. If this monster is also to blame for the recent deaths and disappearances, then it craves humans, and not for flesh. But pain isn’t sustenance.”

“Created?” Neil said, his voice weak.

Andrew felt an uptick in his heartbeat. Fear, real fear, pulsed through his veins and brought the room into sharp precision.

“None of you are going to like this.” She placed a wrinkled hand on Wymack’s huge one and smiled kindly at Andrew. Her shoulders sagged a bit. “A monster that feeds off pain is not something that happens in nature. The only way a monster that feeds on pain could exist is if it was made by bad magic.”

“Blood magic,” Neil said. His voice was soft and breathy, and the ashy undertone had returned to his skin.

“Yes, in this case, probably blood magic.”

Blood mages were powerful. They traded their souls for dark magic and the power to sculpt it into something that had a life of its own. Their creations could only travel at night under the cover of darkness. Andrew didn’t know the exact process of becoming a blood mage, but he knew it was something vile. He had seen the consequences of messing around with that kind of magic, the way it affected the people around you.

Andrew felt the familiar anger grow in his gut, the taste like metal in his mouth. “I’m going to take that fucker out.” He stood and stared at Wymack. He couldn’t deny Andrew this task.

“You did your duty, Minyard,” Wymack said. “None of us have taken on a blood mage before. Odds are you come back dying or not at all.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew said. “This is personal.” He didn’t look at Neil and trusted Bee and Wymack not to give him away.

“I know, Andrew. But you can’t go alone,” Wymack said slowly, his approximation of gentleness.

“I can and I will. Bee will show me what I need to know. I’ll find the mage and I’ll take them out.”

Bee smiled. “I’ll pass on everything I can, Andrew. But I’m not sure it’ll be enough.”

“I know someone who could help,” Neil said. He looked halfway to jumping out of his skin. “In Virginia. I can take you to her. She can tell you what you need.”

Andrew crouched down in front of Neil so they were eye level. He searched his face and watched his aura and confirmed what he felt in his gut: Neil wasn’t lying. “Interesting.” Andrew stood up and threw his arms out wide. “Great! Then it’s all settled. We’ll load up the Maserati and set out tomorrow. Don’t worry, Coach, I’ll show Neil his room. We’ll work out the details tonight and leave after breakfast tomorrow.”

Wymack knew Andrew well enough to know that there was nothing he could say to stop him at this point.

“Come see me before you go, Andrew?” Bee called as Andrew marched Neil out of the room.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bee.”

But first, he had a long-overdue interview with one Neil Josten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are moving along now. Next chapter will dive into Neil and Andrew's relationship so look forward to that! I've moved the total chapter count up because this baby keeps growing.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so so sorry this took almost a whole month to update! I got a new job and a new dog (well, my roommate did) and things Really Happened. 
> 
> No prompt for this one since we're stretching the the fic out past 7 chapters. :)

Neil’s back slammed against the inside of the bedroom door. Andrew had turned on him as soon as they arrived. Neil had been expecting something like this as soon as he stepped foot into the Tower. It was almost a relief to get it over with.

“Stop lying to me,” Andrew’s voice was razor sharp. His face loomed dangerously close, hand heavy on Neil’s sternum.

“I’m not lying to you,” Neil said through clenched teeth. 

Andrew’s smile widened and he tilted his head. “No? You said you didn’t have any powers. So how did you know the girl was alive?”

Neil rewound his memory. Clumps of desperate-faced relatives. Andrew’s stern promise. The deep blue end of the night. Smells on the mountain: pine and sweat and something rotten. It had been intuitive. He had known the same way he knew he was alive right now.

“I don’t know how,” he said. “I just knew. Maybe my magic came back for a second.” He searched for an answer, though finding one was unlikely. Neil struggled under Andrew’s weight. How was he supposed to think like this? “Would you let me go?”

“Not until you tell me something true,” Andrew’s gold eyes were hard, x-raying Neil with obvious distaste. “And trust me, I’ll know.”

“You have the power to tell truth from lies. Do you?” Neil had only heard about that kind of magic.

“I don’t have time for your questions. Truth. Now.” Andrew pushed against Neil’s chest. Surely he could feel the way Neil’s heart pounded behind his ribs.

What was safe? What could Neil give to prove he didn’t mean any harm without giving himself away?

“You were right about me being a runaway,” Neil said. Every word was agony. He had kept the truth locked in his chest for so long. He remembered breaking into cars and abandoned houses, changing his name with each city, sleeping back to back with his mother, a lump beneath the pillow where she kept one hand on a gun.

“Obviously.” Andrew sneered.

“Before then...I did have magic. I couldn’t use it on the run. I didn’t want to leave traces or risk someone seeing me. The person I was running from is powerful. He might sense it. And he has spies. If he finds me, I’m dead.” Neil’s breath was ragged, though the weight of Andrew’s hand had lessened since he started talking, spilling half-truths. Even alluding to his father twisted something in his gut. His vision swam for a moment and the metallic tang of blood pooled under his tongue, between his teeth. Neil shook his head. He needed Andrew to trust him. It was the only shot he had at fixing his magic. Well, the only shot where he didn’t wind up dead. “I was running for so long and my magic, it started to fade. When I finally tried to use it again, it was gone.”

It was as much truth as Neil had given anyone in a long time. He considered telling Andrew about Kai, her library of truths and her gentle insistence that the only way to bring his magic back was openness. But it was pointless, and it hurt to think about something impossible.

Andrew’s face was a mask. It held no pity, and for some reason relief shot through Neil. The weight of Andrew’s hand on Neil’s chest had become a comfort, holding Neil up rather than pinning him down.

“And what are you running from, Neil?”

A thousand images flashed through Neil’s head at once. His father, eyes red with bloodlust. His mother, her crumpled form. Her last words begging him to keep running, to stay safe, to hold on to his magic even though she kept him from it for years and years. It was too much. Neil shook his head. “I can’t.”

Andrew didn’t speak, just stared at Neil, gaze heavy. Neil’s stomach tingled with the feeling of being seen. Like Andrew was examining his soul, deciding if he was worth keeping alive. “Then tell me this. What is your power?”

Grief and guilt welled in Neil’s gut. He missed his magic so much. It made him who he was, even when he wasn’t using it. Ever since Neil had realized his powers were gone, ever since his father murdered his mother in front of his eyes, all Neil could think about was getting them back. But here, in the face of a healer, a magic healer, Neil had to confront the ugly truth. His powers made him monstrous. If Neil was any sort of good person, he would leave them dormant until they deserted him completely and let himself fade into non-magic society until his father found him and killed him. But something in Neil wouldn’t let him do that, the same thing that compelled his mother to use her dying breath to tell Neil to find his magic again. Even though that magic was half his father’s, half a horror. Even though that magic made her life so miserable she had fled with her son in the night.

Andrew pressed his hand harder on Neil’s chest. Neil idly wondered if it would bruise. 

“Neil.” The threat had fallen from his stance, but the intensity of his stare continued. Neil let it bring him back to the present.

“From my mother, I get speed.” 

“Faster than on the mountain, you mean?”

“Much faster. Faster than any human.”

Andrew nodded once. “And from your other parent?”

Most people didn’t have magic from both of their parents. A sick laugh rose and died in Neil’s throat. Neil had unfortunately inherited both his father’s face and power. “My father. He called it ‘The Fever.’”

The figure of his father loomed in his mind, the way his pupils shrank when it came on him, fluid shadows on the wall where the separation between his father’s arm and the hatchet in his hand was indiscernible. He hadn’t needed to dabble in blood magic to be deadly.

Andrew’s hand spread on Neil’s chest, taking in the heat from Neil’s body. A healer would take the name literally. It wasn’t a real fever, but a sickness all the same.

“It only comes when it’s needed, like my speed. And you don’t want that.”

“Then what does the name mean?”

Neil sucked in a breath. “It means I’m really good at killing people.”

Nothing in Andrew’s face moved, but he leaned just a hair closer to Neil as if to get a good look at him. His breath was warm on Neil’s chin and his eyes moved back and forth. Andrew’s face wasn’t immediately striking. Besides his wheat-blonde hair, he was an average looking, if short, man. But something about the angle of his jaw set his mouth forward and gave his expression perpetual certainty, though his poker face didn’t hint at what he might be certain of. Then, finally, Andrew leaned back, his face still empty. “You mean you were really good at killing people. We could have used that power last night.”

Neil stared, unable to get a handle on this man. Andrew said that Neil could have been useful, but it didn’t sound like he wanted to use Neil. He didn’t sound disgusted, either, or even scornful with disbelief. Any of those, Neil would have understood. If anything Andrew sounded annoyed, inconvenienced.

Andrew’s hand fell from Neil’s chest, but his gaze remained intense. “You don’t talk like a man who wants his powers back. And you don’t hide like a man afraid for his life.” His voice was a challenge.

“I was hoping they might come back.” Neil’s voice nearly broke. He couldn’t hold Andrew’s gaze any longer. It was a half-truth, like Neil’s entry into the ring had been a half-hope. He looked to the side, let his vision fuzz out in the middle distance while he searched for explanations that eluded him. His sweaty feet itched in his socks and the chasm behind his ribs felt bottomless.

“Being without magic…” Neil gestured helplessly into the air. “I’m tired of being nothing.” It was the truest thing he had said since his mother died.

Andrew must have sensed it, however his power worked. His posture shifted, and his voice was quiet. “They’re gifts, you know. The powers.” He said it like he was repeating the words of someone else. Probably Betsy.

Neil snorted. “You’re a healer who carries knives. Keep telling yourself that.”

“You understand nothing.” Andrew stepped out of Neil’s space and turned his back. “Remember that. There’s soap and towels in the bathroom down the hall and blankets in the closet. How far is your source from here?”

“It’s in Roanoke. About five hours.”

“We’ll leave at dawn, then. I’ll come get you for dinner in an hour.” Andrew moved to the door.

“Wait. What about my magic? Are you going to talk to Betsy about how to fix it?”

Andrew pivoted to Neil. “Monster first, figuring your shit out second. Any other questions?” His voice dipped into sarcasm but Neil asked another anyway.

“What did you mean when you said this was personal?” Andrew had growled it to Wymack when they decided he would go after the monster, but that could have been for a number of reasons. He could have lost a younger sibling the same age as the girl they found or maybe he had an encounter with blood magic before. Neil shivered at the thought.

Andrew’s face was stone. “Just that. It’s personal.” He didn’t give Neil time to respond before he slammed the door shut.

In the shower, Neil scrubbed at his hair with the suds from the bar of soap until he figured it was clean. The brown stripes of dried blood softened and fell away from his skin. Neil finished and changed into clean clothes quickly, used to making the most of sparse accommodations. Back in his room, he moved the few clothes he owned from his duffel to the well-used two-drawer dresser. Both the room and bathroom were small but serviceable, decorated in a light seafoam green that Neil could see Abby picking out. Neil cracked the window next to the bed and settled on the edge. Cars trundled past, and even downtown birds and insects made themselves known with familiar noises. Neil felt the humidity soak into his skin, polluting the dry, conditioned air. He closed his eyes and let himself breathe.

It felt good to share something with Andrew, though Neil knew Andrew would already be putting some of the pieces together, that even these few revelations were enough to begin uncovering Neil’s identity. But Neil was tired and he was always going to die without his mother, anyway. He forced thoughts of his mother and eventual death away and instead occupied himself with the puzzle that was Andrew. His reaction had been so strange, so even-keeled. Neil wanted to push him, to see what was happening behind the stone wall and the mocking aggression. He wanted to find out where the monsters were coming from. Despite his guilt, despite his father, Neil wanted his magic back. With Andrew and the Foxes, he had a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)


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